Country Familiars

Bastion has its pets, vermin, working animals, and other creatures. 

But out in Deep Country they'll tell you with glee that the big city doesn't have real Familiars. 

Of course it does, Bastion has everything, but it's not worth having the argument. Just let them have this one.

Familiars

• Each is unique and named, but exists in many distant places at once (don't try and pull any tricks around this, it won't work).
• They visit each place to help one particular person with a specific desire.
• They keep their host focused on this one goal, to the detriment of everything else.

So it's a simple, straightforward deal. They use their unnatural powers to help you with a thing, no strings attached, and once it's done they'll get out of your life. Though, in most stories the thing is never really done, and the familiar usually ends up outliving their host. 

And even though they're bound to help you free of charge, they still have hungers and hatreds, which they can be quite vocal about. You can just ignore them, of course, but often it just feels easier to keep them happy. 

If a Familiar feels unwelcome or unappreciated their favourite trick is to hide, often inside a valuable object or somehow behind your ear or inside the black of your eye. They don't stop helping altogether, but things would be so much quicker if you just indulged their needs. 

Their form is rarely straightforward, and it's not as simple as just being a black cat.

Maybe it's sort of a cat, but it's immediately obvious that they aren't. More like if your mind's eye tried to manifest a cat in front of you, but you hadn't seen one since your childhood. 

So if the simple stuff doesn't look right, naturally they tend to adopt more elaborate forms made of multiple animal parts and fancy embellishments. They take real pride in their appearance, and love a good neck-frill, prehensile tail, or iridescent coat. 

Let's do this with Spark Tables. Roll 4d20.

d20	Form	Power
1	Coiling	Precognition
2	Smiling	Invisibility
3	Wallowing	Death Touch
4	Lounging	Resurrection
5	Preening	Telekinesis
6	Watching	Pestilence
7	Stalking	Scrying
8	Gliding	Curses
9	Crawling	Pyrokinesis
10	Guarding	Time Manipulation
11	Fluttering	Illusionism
12	Lurking	Telepathy
13	Scurrying	Memory Manipulation
14	Burrowing	Weather Control
15	Basking	Protection
16	Creeping	Conjuration
17	Camouflaging	Light Manipulation
18	Stretching	Shape Shifting
19	Drooling	Knowledge
20	Whimpering	Shadow Craft

d20	Hunger	Hatred
1	Coal	Metal
2	Fire	Plants
3	Rodents	Dullards
4	Velvet	Paintings
5	Youth	Salt
6	Secrets	Wind
7	Praise	Blood
8	Beauty	Religion
9	Bone	Mud
10	Sweetness	Wood
11	Silk	Music
12	Meat	The Elderly
13	Antiquities	Milk
14	Gold	Cattle
15	Spices	Stone
16	Books	Insects
17	Reflections	Fiction
18	Alcohol	Dogs
19	Birds	The Ugly
20	Fungus	Carvings

d6 Paltry Monarchs of the Stoker Counties

The archetype of the Deep Country King has been romanticised from the loftiest opera houses to the filthiest dockyard drinking songs.

A heap of pampered bulge. Dripping mutton-leg in one hand, the other wrapped around a courtesan. At once a jovial host and petty persecutor. Slow to rise, fast to proclaim. A fat paragon and beloved laughing-stock to their subjects. 

Is there actually any truth to all this? Should the Modern Bastiard not be above such spitting-down on our country cousins? In search of the real monarchs of those simple lands, I ventured to the Stoker Counties. 

Here there was at least an effort to embrace industry, but instead of rising to the electrical heights of Bastion, they fell backward into their own shadow. There is a small trade with Bastion, mostly in low-grade coal and peat, hauled for weeks on bankburst canals by thick-set ponies. Barely enough to keep a refrigerator running for the night, but I suppose it's a tradition that holds a certain pride for these sorts. 

Queen Azblanche I of Payle, Blessed Watcher of the Roads and Protector of All Seas

I expected my travels would mostly land me in overfurnished courts and sweat-drenched halls, but upon my arrival to Payle I was hurried into a personal meeting with their Queen. She sat in a white stone pavilion, among broadleaf shade and trickling fountains. She smiled at me as you would a late night visitor to your doorstep, urging me to make myself at home but always asking of my next destination. Though we are nowhere near the ocean, she made constant references to my upcoming voyage, and the potential hazards if All Seas are not treated with respect. 

As conversation turned to silence I felt a certain calm, then a shortness of breath, followed by a dark pressure about my body. I'm ashamed to confess that I excused myself and made immediate plans for our ongoing journey. 

 

King Topet II of the Nethermier, Warlord of the Great Gathering

This is more what I was expecting. I arrived to a field of high-pointed tents, gaudy in clashing colours, each flanked with overflowing armsracks of bills, glaives, and pole-bows. As I was ushered between tents I was met with a parade of ostentatiously dressed officers, each more booming and theatric than the last. I was told of the King's strategic prowess, their martial ferocity, and the great legacy of their bloodline. It seems the current war is focused on just about every neighbouring people that does not already serve in this patchwork army. 

Finally, I was invited to watch the King dine at sunset, as did a crowd of brightly armoured knights. He entered, youthful and pale, with a bowl of red stew under one arm. As he moved about the room he greeted each soldier by name, recalled some past glory together, and fed them a handful of stew before moving on. As he came to me, he spoke my name clearly, and recalled a moment that I certainly remember sharing with him, although I had met him just today. As the stringy meat and cupreous gravy passed my lips I suddenly felt at home. I knew that I would die for him, and he for me. 

After some firm persuasion, my travelling companions urged me away from the camp under moonlight, but I still think of him and the war to come. 

 

 

Queen Yxby III of Leyerset, First, Third, and Last

At last, a palace of sorts! Though not one as I had expected on this journey. A casteline treehouse of knotted wood polished to a mahogany shine, and no clear method of access. 

This mining town had apparently given up their trade, letting their contract with Bastion expire, instead embracing lives of pure devotion to the Queen. This left the town itself rather desperate, with each of their crop of mastodian potatoes having to feed multiple households. The thick, barklike peels are most prized, I hear, called "flesh of the Queen". Despite this hunger, no local would accept a share of the tinned rations we brought in. It seems that their hunger is a price for the immortality of their Queen, who I was repeatedly told I could not meet. 

Of course, I would not be so easily defeated. In a quiet moment under the late afternoon sun, I followed a servant into the woods, hoping to glimpse a secret means of climbing to the palace, but instead they just went deeper, the lush forest turning to dead trees and dry air. Then all of a sudden I saw her, a humanoid torso projecting from a fallen tree. As she began to writhe, so too did the exposed roots and splintered branches of her tree. The servant donned the queen with fruit and flowers, describing the poverty that her subjects were living under, eliciting a contented sigh from the monarch. Then, her eyes slowly opened and her red gaze met mine, sending me fleeing to the nearest road and onto our next host. 

 

 

Queen Ormellion IV the Three-Crowned of Fayerelk, Hoggerly, and Evengarr 

This young Queen, I was told, holds the glory of three crowns, finally uniting three realms that share a bloody history of mutual animosity. 

Her grey palace sits alone, with no other settlement in sight. In truth, my route here could barely be described as a road, barely more than a beaten footpath across dry plains. 

Yet, her court was full. Musicians rejoice of this new peace, and representatives from all three realms drink and smoke together, full of self-congratulation. 

The Queen sits alone, her three crowns hung at her side, her head buried in a book. I was told by a wrinkled steward that I could ask her just three questions, yet our conversation stretched on for hours. Each question I asked about her lands was met with vagaries or monosyllables, but in turn she asked me everything I knew of other lands. Of course we spoke of Bastion, but she seemed especially interested in the other monarchs and their struggles. At first I thought her ambitious, considering future conquests, but instead I left pitying her apparent boredom reached at such a young age, and the feeling that she considers her triumphant position not rightly earned through adequate struggle. 

 

 

Grand Prince Krysopel V of Urwall 

At a braided junction of canals, Urwall is a rare beacon of order out in Deep Country. Its grand ramparts are dotted with tunnels for narrowboats and barges, and the people flourish from the extortionate tolls taken in return for passage. I saw more than one boatman hauled from their craft and thrown into a dungeon for refusing to pay. 

The town itself is packed with people of some modernity! Like an adorable country imitation of Bastion. I felt quite at home if not for the incomprehensible dialect and that specific country odour. 

The Prince held an open court once a week, and the queue for entry encircled his red-brick palace. Eventually I was granted an audience, and explained my exploration of country monarchs. The Prince uttered some vague poetry on the nature of jealousy, then took me on a personal tour of their palace. As each crudely-luxurious chamber was revealed to me, the Prince asked if I had seen such things in Bastion. Of course I indulged his pride, but I suspect he saw through me. Before I left he asked me which city was greater, Urwall or Bastion. Before I could answer he stopped me and had me escorted outside the city walls, returning to his fawning subjects. 

 

 

King Jezuli VI of the Vacant Realm

After I had met all five monarchs in our itinerary we set a course for Bastion. Yet, as is so often the way out here, the road home appeared quite different than that we took here. We found our little expedition wandering between great hills that we had not seen before, with the sun somehow always at our backs. With some reluctance, I stopped to ask a hermit for directions. 

Upon closer inspection he was not alone, but sat with a sleeping child, playing them a gentle lullaby on a weather-beaten harp. 

He explained that we were truly lost, and no journey back to Bastion was possible at this time. We had to wait for the Sun to be right, which may never happen. He claimed to be building a kingdom of his own, and we were welcome to stay if we swore our fealty. Of course we left the man, pressing onward as best we could, but each day of travel brought us back to his hill. 

If this correspondence reaches Bastion, I hope my writings prove informative for countryphiles, and I urge you not to seek us out. We have a place under our King now, and his realm will continue to grow until even Bastion bows to its rightful ruler. 

Porcine Bastionland (or d12 Deep Country Pigs)

Somewhen between our industrial renaissance and this electrical epoch, the pig was banned from Bastion.

Although this was never properly repealed, it is now actively unenforced. Those that don't deal with bestial law have forgotten about it entirely.

But the pigs have always remembered.

Perhaps this is why the creature is so ubiquitous in the rural sprawl of Deep Country. Generations of exiled swines were welcomed into the lives of those that would do anything to contradict Bastion. But if there's one thing country folk like more than going against the city, it's going against each other, and soon every town was boasting of their specialist breeds. 

Rivalries were roused, blood was drawn, towns were smashed aruin. Nowadays it's mostly arguments bellowed across streams, or a rare midnight walloping-raid. But the legacy lives on in the Pigs of Deep Country. Not those raised for slaughter, but those kept for more specialist purposes. 

I spent an agonising two weeks riding the battered roads and rusted rails so that I could bring to you a mere fragment of this porcine phenomenon. 

1. THE DRAFTON NULLITCH VOID BARMER

The densest living mass I have ever witnessed. Small animals are drawn into its gravity well, and even humans feel a gentle attraction. Can cause catastrophic scenes upon moving suddenly, so all efforts are made to keep them calm. 

2. THE GREAT TRAVELLING POLE PIGGY, SNOFFERELLA

I first thought this to be a sort of Mock Pig, but this breed is indeed a truly living beast, bred with a glossy hide and an organ arrangement that can withstand gentle impalement in the construction of a living carousel. They appear to enjoy the ride, but must be carefully rotated a few times each day to maintain internal equilibrium.

3. THE PUDINTRY CHOPPER

I had heard this creature called the Scapepig but locals found such references disrespectful to the sacrifice of this breed. When a crime goes unsolved for a period of four years, the sentence is passed on to one of the town's beloved pigs. A timid, lightly furred breed, they resist their eventual arrest with only token squirms and squeals, locals assuring me that the pigs see their inevitable execution as some fulfilment of their destiny. 

4. THE BOSTOLETS OF HUSHER'S BUSHLEY

Supposedly all descended from the most intelligent pig to ever have lived, the wise Bosto. This small breed are kept in the town's library, where patient trainers attempt to educate the beasts, hoping they will live up to the myth of their ancestor. So far the town claims to have trained pigs with some expertise in gambling games, weather forecasting, and matchmaking, but still not a scratching on the legendary Bosto. 

5. THE BURRYSOD CLIPPER

Lean, predatory hogs that attack the poor people of Burrysod at sunset every day, chewing on any bare legs they can find. By night they sneak into properties to gnaw on furniture and leave their mess in hidden places. The stories say that any attempt to fight back against these pests would only incur a greater wrath, so the locals try to make a game of it. I get the sense that their patience is beginning to wear thin. 

6. THE ABYSATHER GORING-BOAR

This carnivorous breed lives in a symbiosis with the town's more intelligent birds. They drag carrion to the pigs, and are paid in silver from a hidden trove. It's not clear where the pigs are getting their riches from, but they have thwarted every attempt to locate it through a combination of wits and ruthless violence. 

7. THE CASTLEFEGG CATTLEHOG

A truly gigantic hog, carrying itself with the lazy disinterest of a common cow. It possesses none of the noble snuffling or muckery of a pig, and something about it filled me with pure hatred. I have never felt such sudden desire to broadcast my distaste of a harmless creature, which the locals assured me was normal for the first time seeing the beast. Once a few days had passed I could no longer remember the cause of my animosity

8. THE WORKING SWINE OF URMINGSWORTH

Only one member of the Churltapp family remains, carrying a heavy burden to the people of Urmingsworth. She alone can speak to the swine, who follow her instructions diligently if somewhat over-literally. They are the sole workers of this town, the folk having fallen into indolence and sloth after benefiting from generations of free swine-labour.

9. OLD GRUNTER REBORN IN ASHER BREACON

Pig Mayors are so common in Deep Country that it's hardly worth reporting as news. However, Old Grunter represents something more than that. The people of Asher Beacon believe that their town has been ruled by the same pig reborn hundreds of times. I was welcomed to sit in on a mayoral address, and the people did appear to understand the creature's snorts and belches. If they are all playing along with a ruse it appears to be to the town's benefit, as things are truly thriving. 

10. EARL BAPCACKER OF TATER-UNDER-SORE

The rank of Earl was granted to this entire breed for military service, serving as mounts in some anecdotal war involving a cavalry charge on Bastion itself! Must be nonsense, as I was never taught about that at school. Now, this robust breed's fighting days are over, serving as honourary companions to the faded nobility of the Sorelands. They have developed suitably aristocratic tastes, not only in their diet but in decor and etiquette. I myself was corrected by one of the beasts multiple times during our shared banquet, with a gentle groan and a sideways glance directing me to adjust my posture or use the correct fork. 

11. THE BLESSED OEELEE OF FARLIND ROOK

I could not make sense of these things. They ate no swill, left no shit, made no sound. They were smooth as water, soft as bedding, and utterly passive in their behaviour. All they would do is occasionally move to smell some of the flowers left in their pen, the aroma appearing to inflate them ever so slightly. While they are never slaughtered, they are eaten when they die of natural causes, and such meat is rumoured to be the stuff of dreams. Upon asking if I could taste the meat, I was assured that it would never happen in my lifetime and promptly routed from town by armed militiamen. The high stone walls would keep the most persistent poachers at bay, but I wonder why they would permit me to glimpse at the promise of such succulence before casting me out. 

12. THE GUTMEDE STYBIRD

All your worst fears about this beast are true and worse. For those seeking to recreate my journey, this is one to pass by. 

A Bastionese Smokey in King Haffwun's Court

You don't have to get a time machine to visit the past. You just have to leave Bastion and head into Deep Country.
It stretches on and on. Seas, Mountains, Deserts, but always more Deep Country.

The long shadow of Bastion's backwards past. Every embarrassing phase of humanity's modernisation stuck in its rut.

Deeper in distance, deeper in time.

If they're close enough to see Bastion's smoke, you might be able to talk with them. Failed cities, idiot yokels, and toothless estates.

Any further and you'd be as likely to reason with wild dogs.

They live with beasts and follow their rules.

Their little wars favour only the strong.

Their faiths are ill-informed.

They lack the modern look.

Still, if you're there you might have need of a Patron.

In short, Patrons know about Treasure, and their main uses are buying Treasure off you, and pointing you to even bigger hauls. In Bastion they tend to be complicated and self-important, reflecting the city itself.

But this is Deep Country, and its Key Principles are:

- It's stuck in the past.
- Things move slowly.
- Everything is hiding something. 

Two Deep Country Patrons

King Haffwun - Petty King of Shambly Hole

- To non-subjects, he uses Guards (8hp, d6 Crossbow, Fur-hats) to tax them, then expel from any land his Cave can see. It's crap land, but provides useful passage and has lots of Underground connections. 

- You can become a subject by bringing a Treasure worth up to 1g, but subjects have to dress up in ridiculous jester outfits when in court (and he summons you often). He doesn't like jokes, though. 

- If you bring a Treasure worth more than 1g, you can become a Knight, but it's more work than its worth and loads of drawn-out ceremony. 

The Lion Council - Literally a Council of Lions (9hp, d8 Bite) in a Failed City

- If you come without meat, you are their meat. 

- If you bring normal meat, they'll eat it and bring you a mouthful of coins d10g they took from bodies of previous victims. 

- If you bring exotic meat, they'll eat it and savour it for an hour or so before deciding if they enjoyed it. There's a 50% chance they'll love it, and grant you a place on the council. If you take it and spend a day with the Lions you learn to pounce and bite as a lion (d6, or d12 to an unsuspecting civilised person the first time you do it). If they don't like it, they make an example of you. 

Now, as a General Thing:

Patrons are useful when you want money.

Unions are useful when you have money. 

Well money is still useful in Deep Country, but these Unions want something else. 

Here the line between Union and Patron can get blurred. Generally they both want something, and have something you want. 

Two Deep Country Unions

Instead of the usual 10g contribution to be allowed in to a Ritual, these Unions require alternative payment. 

The Buckwud Legiune - Backwards, Never Forwards!

Instead of the 10g fee, attending a Ritual requires you to destroy 10g worth of modern equipment. 

- Song of Yesterday: A droning lament against civilisation. Can be sung once per day to cause buildings to crumble and machinery to fail catastrophically. 

- Carousel of Unprogress: A spinning dance that returns those in the middle to a younger form, essentially taking your character back to how they were immediately after generation.  

- Nature's Tale: A long drawn out story about the glory of the savage past. All that take part in the telling forget how to use anything more complex than a doorknob, but can get vague hints of how trees and animals feel by touching them. 

Sub-Man-Pack - We All Must Slave

Instead of the 10g fee, attending a ritual requires you work a month as a Slave, complete with murder if you try to leave partway through. 

- Mind Breaker: Permanently lose d20 WIL. If you survive this, increase your STR to 18 and grow ogre-like in appearance. 

- Body Breaker: Permanently lose d20 DEX. If you survive this, you always count as having Armour 1 and essentially suffer no pain. 

- Spirit Breaker: Your personality is gone, and although you look the same your friends and family won't believe you're the same person. However, you are immune to anything that targets your willpower, spirit, or confidence. 

Too Long in Deep Country

The wind is colder here. The hills are steeper. The wounds left by hungry birds sting more, and your soft city flesh gets infected with tough-skinned maggots.

But it's nice and quiet if you want to get away from things.

If you've had your fill of wandering, roll d20 to see which faint dot of civlisation you find, and what's happening there.

1-4: Banto Rest Lodge
An overgrown old lodge for retired sociopaths to live out their days tormenting each other. They'll put you up for the night but expect malicious pranks from the residents.

1: A little bald old man is going on a rampage because everyone else is pretending he's invisible. They're sticking to the prank far beyond the point of their own safety.
2: The Lodge Matron has put all the residents to bed early after a particularly bloody foodfight. Two bodies are being buried outside.
3: All the residents are pretending to be dead. Each has a 10% chance of just slipping into death during this prank.
4: The Lodge Matron is being roasted alive over a spit.

5-8: Futhkerskuff Ranch
A ranch with dozens of staff tending to just one animal, a huge titan-cow with rocky chunks of flesh that periodically fall off for meat collection (STR 19, DEX 3, WIL 2, 3hp, Armour 2, d10 Trample, Fights as Detachment). They'll give you a meal and bed if you do some work.

5: The titan-cow has broken loose from its unbreakable chain, and needs bringing back in.
6: The titan-cow has eaten all of the ranch staff, and it sits deserted beside the sleeping beast.
7: It's a great meat-harvest this week, so the staff are making the biggest stew in history. The meat is dry and gravelly.
8: The titan-cow has laid a boulder-sized egg, and the staff are arguing whether it's too dangerous to allow it to hatch. Apparently the young are very boisterous and don't know their own strength.

9-12: Leetdeane Practical Boy's School
A dirty old boarding school for children that parents want to disappear. You can stay the night if you can put up with the sobbing.

9: It's micro-lobotomy day, and the boys are having a small part of their brain burnt away by pouring a chemical up the nostril. Those that come out of the infirmary seem pretty content. Those going in are kicking and screaming.
10: A nearby (week's travel) school have come to take part in a Mallet-Match. Boys fight in teams of twelve with heavy wooden mallets, wearing leather caps for protection. The waist-or-below rule is not enforced well, and the last team standing wins.
11: The boys are being taught to use a macro-welder used in laying rails. You see a handful of boys almost die within the first few minutes of the lesson. If you leave them to it, 2d20-10 out of the class of 30 will die.
12: The boys have rebelled and locked the teachers up in the Time Out Cage. They're getting drunk, making huge sandwiches, and raiding the forbidden library for books about female anatomy.

13-15: Tower of Universal Loverhood
A towering monastery built in the name of love for all living things. Full of filthy pigs and cultists that have uncomfortably close relationships with them. You can stay if one of the pigs takes a liking to you. At the first pork joke you're expelled.

13: Celebrating the imminent birth of a new litter of piglets. Make the birthing ceremony grosser than I care to write here.
14: Ordaining a life partnership between a tall, spotty cultist and her favourite pig.
15: Feasting on fodder from a giant trough, allowing food to pass between the mouths of pig and man.

16-18: Howull
A town built around a huge sinkhole previously mined for deep-metals. Lies mostly in ruins. More dogs than people. You can stay the night if you can put up with the residents constantly interrupting you to explain why Bastion is terrible and Howull is great.

16: It's the annual dog cull, so people are chasing down the oldest dogs and throwing them into the sinkhole.
17: Something is stirring in the sinkhole, so the town militia are trying to get a boulder over to the sinkhole to drop on it.
18: The sinkhole is open for mining again! Some new rare metal has been found at the deepest point, and a mini gold-rush is starting.

19-20: Gran's Labyrinth
An ancient hedge and stone maze filled with deathtraps, now occupied by a sweetly malicious old crone (STR 5, DEX 5, WIL 7, 10hp, d4 Rolling Pin) that shouts bad advice from the tower in the center, luring you deeper inside.

19: The concentrated smell of plum crumble is being pumped out of pipes around the labyrinth's enterance.
20: Silence. Gran is dead, and her porcelain collectibles (around 1g total) are up for grabs!